


Merry Little Chrismas

by fhsa_archivist



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-22
Updated: 2004-07-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 17:12:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: Spock and Claire do their best to get through their first Christmas without Kirk.





	Merry Little Chrismas

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

It's Christmas Day, and Spock and I stay close to home. We seem to be doing a passable job of making it through the holiday without Jim. The tree is beautifully, perfectly decorated, and even as I admire it I long for the wretched excess of a Jim-decorated tree. 

 

Spock spent the morning working on a paper for one of the more arcane journals of theoretical astrophysics, and now he's getting our lunch ready. I glance around the kitchen, noting the perfect order there, and wish I was seeing the disaster left in the wake of a Jim-prepared meal. 

 

After lunch, we will open our gifts and then go for a long walk, our usual custom whenever we're together at Christmas. We haven't even discussed it, but we both know that that's what we'll do. Treating this as just another Christmas, and neatly stepping around just what it is that makes this year different. 

 

We're getting ready to sit down when the door chimes. Spock's hands are full of plates, so I go to answer it and find Uhura balancing three boxes, two large and one smaller, wrapped a bit messily in gold paper and trimmed with a riot of red and green ribbon. The wrapping job looks remarkably like something Jim would do, and again I feel a twinge of longing. 

 

"I know the saying doesn't quite fit this year," she says, "But - Merry Christmas." 

 

"Merry Christmas, Nyota. Are those for us?" 

 

"Yes, they are," she says, looking uncomfortable, though I don't know why. 

 

"Come to the living room and you can put them under the tree. But you shouldn't have, you know." 

 

"Um hmm," she says. 

 

"We were just getting ready to sit down to lunch," I say, wondering at the incongruities of the gaily wrapped packages and her subdued comments. "Will you join us?" 

 

"Yes, I'd be happy to," she answers, and as we move into the kitchen we see that Spock has already laid another place setting. 

 

We eat ratatouille and crusty bread and drink parva juice mixed with carbonated water, and make meaningless small talk about our families and the holiday and the weather. Afterwards, I brew coffee for Nyota and me, herbal tea for Spock, and we take our cups into the living room. 

 

"Shall we open the gifts you brought?" I ask, moving towards the tree. 

 

"Wait," she says suddenly. "Come and sit down, Claire. I have something to tell you both." She looks uncomfortable again, as she had when she arrived, but I still can't understand why she's squirming so. 

 

"Something troubles you, Nyota. What is it?" Spock asks. She jumps a little at that, and I can guess why. It's unusual for him to address her, or any of his fellow officers, by their given names. That she has also been our friend for years makes no difference. It's Spock's nature to be formal. 

 

She turns to look at Spock, then at me. "The gifts *are* for you. But they're not from me." 

 

Deep inside, I know what she's trying to say. Still, I look for the easier explanation - the explanation that wouldn't rip my heart to pieces again, when it has just started to mend. "Oh. Hikaru sent them, right?" She shakes her head. "Scotty?" Another shake. "McCoy already brought his; Pavel Chekov, then?" 

 

Spock's hand finds its way gently to my arm, stopping my babbling. "They are from Jim, are they not?" At her nod, he says, "Tell us." 

 

"He called me one day. It was months ago - August. He asked if he could come and see me. He said he had a favor to ask. We met at my place the next evening, after my duty shift." 

 

I try to remember back to August. Jim had still been spending a day or two a week in San Francisco, flying a desk for Nogura. It would have been easy enough to arrange a meeting with Nyota and keep it a secret from Spock and me. 

 

"He walked in with those boxes, wrapped just as you see them," she goes on, the look in her eyes telling me she's reliving the scene in the telling of it. "And he said, 'this Christmas, will you play Santa's elf for me? I don't think I'll be able to do it for myself.'" 

 

Spock makes a very small sound, and I realize that I'm gripping his arm so hard that my nails must be digging painfully into him. I loosen my grip and take my hand away, and think about the first time that Nyota had done this for us. 

 

### 

 

'Playing Santa's elf.' Uhura's words remind me of another occasion on which she had taken that role. 

 

Jim and I left on our new voyage only a few weeks after our bonding ceremony on Vulcan. The ceremony had been a mere formality, as we three actually had been bonded for some months by then, and had already been married in a traditional ceremony on Earth. Claire had returned to her duties at Starfleet Academy. 

 

Our life together had been new, still somewhat unformed. We had agreed all along to maintain our chosen careers even though doing so meant that we would be subjected to long periods of separation. The theory was workable, the practice somewhat more difficult. Both Jim and I felt Claire's absence quite strongly. Later, we learned how to strengthen our relationship even when we were apart, but at this time we were still, as Jim would say, 'Feeling our way.' 

 

The time came to celebrate the traditional year-end holidays that seemed so important to our largely human crew. Jim and I attended the party, as usual, though he did not seem as enthusiastic as he had in prior years. As we were preparing to leave, Uhura approached us. 

 

"I see you're about to escape this madhouse," she said. "Would it be all right if I stopped by your quarters in a few minutes? It won't take long," she said, cryptically. 

 

My t'hy'la looked quizzically at her, and I also wondered at the purpose of her visit. "Of course," he said. "We'll be waiting for you." 

 

We returned to our quarters in silence. Jim seemed melancholy now that he had no need to maintain a festive demeanor for the sake of the crew. As we set the board for our nightly chess game, we were interrupted by the door buzzer. 

 

"Come," Jim called, and Uhura entered as we had expected. 

 

She had added an article of clothing to her attire - a hat in red, trimmed with white all around the bottom. The top of the hat flopped over and ended in a furred ball that resembled nothing so much as a bright white tribble. And her arms were full of boxes, each one wrapped in a different garish paper in which the predominant colors were red and green. Some boxes were trimmed with ribbons, others with bows. 

 

"Just think of me as Santa's elfin helper," she said with a smile. "I'm under strict orders to say 'Ho, ho, ho' on his behalf, so consider it said." 

 

"What is all this?" Jim asked. 

 

"All will be revealed," she said, placing the packages on the floor next to the desk and extracting a small white envelope from underneath one of them, which she presented to me. "Open the biggest box first, then the envelope. Those are the instructions I was asked to convey." 

 

"Thank you, Uhura," Jim said. His mood seemed considerably lighter than it had been only a few moments earlier. 

 

"I was asked to choose what I thought would be an appropriate time to make this delivery," she said abruptly, looking closely at Jim and then at me, "and I think I picked the right moment. Merry Christmas, to both of you." She smiled and departed. 

 

"Well, Spock," Jim said, poking the various packages with a tentative finger, "shall we solve the mystery? Here," he said, handing me the largest box. "You open it." 

 

"Very well," I answered. I carefully pulled the bow off the top and then peeled away the paper, folding it neatly for reuse. 

 

Jim watched me with amusement. "It's not entirely traditional to be so careful with the wrappings," he said. "They're meant to be discarded, not saved." 

 

"That would be wasteful," I said, surprised. 

 

"That's the idea," he said. "Christmas is a time of plenty, and the best way to demonstrate it is to waste something." 

 

"Illogical," I said. 

 

"Yes, I know." His smile warmed me, as it always did. 

 

I opened the box and removed a metal sculpture less than half a meter in height, arms branching off a central stalk that was mounted on a tripod base. The arms were hung with a variety of small, colorful ornaments in the shape of bells, spheres, and stylized animals. At the top of the sculpture was mounted a gold star. There was a switch on the base, and when I thumbed it, tiny colored lights appeared, blinking on and off in a random pattern. 

 

"A Christmas tree!" Jim said with delight, and I realized, looking at it again, that it was indeed an abstract representation of a traditional decorated tree. 

 

"Interesting," I said. "Where shall we put it?" 

 

"How about right there on the desk?" 

 

I set it carefully to one side. "Open the envelope now, Jim." 

 

He tore it open and took out a card decorated on the outside with an old fashioned scene of a house in the snow, flanked by evergreen trees. As he opened the card, a folded sheet fell out. "Claire," he said. 

 

"I suspected as much," I replied. "What is the message on the card?" 

 

"It's a quotation from a very old song, I think," he said. "A Christmas song. Yes, I remember it now. My mother liked this song a lot." 

 

"Will you sing it?" 

 

"Oh, no, I don't think so, Spock. Trust me when I tell you that it would ruin it for you forever. I can't carry a tune in a bucket." Which explained why, in all the time I had known him, I never had heard him sing. "But I'll read the words to you. They're from the end of the song." His voice was rough with emotion as he spoke the words. "'Through the years we all will be together / If the Fates allow: / Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, / And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.'" 

 

"Highly sentimental," I commented, my eyes drawn to the shining star that Claire had hung on the highest bough of our small tree. 

 

"Yes," he said, smiling again. "Perfectly in keeping with the spirit of the season. Shall I read the letter?" 

 

"Please do." 

 

He opened the folded page and began. 

 

{{Dear Spock and Jim. Our first Christmas together. Our first Christmas apart. 

 

{{As I write this, it is late October. I have never before in my life prepared for Christmas so early. I'm usually one of those last minute folks. But it seemed important, this year at least, to plan ahead. 

 

{{In a few days you'll leave on your next voyage, and we don't know when next we'll be together. It feels too soon to me. By the standards of an earlier time, we would still be honeymooners, cuddled up together and beating away the rest of the world with a stick.}} 

 

Jim looked up at me. "Quite an image, Spock. You, cuddling. To say nothing of the stick." 

 

"Indeed," I said drily, but I had not deceived Jim. In truth, I had come to enjoy the activity that Claire called "cuddling," unproductive though it was. Lying with my bondmates, feeling their cool bodies pressed against me and listening to the slow thudding of their hearts, contented me more than I ever had thought possible. 

 

He smiled, and returned to the letter. 

 

{{Christmas is a time for families, and we're family now. I want to be with you, but I can't. So instead, I've sent a little of the spirit of the season. Nyota was kind enough to help me out by stowing all the boxes in her closet and making the delivery for me. Don't open the littlest package, by the way. That one's for her.}} 

 

We both looked over at the pile of gifts. "This one," I said, extracting a red-wrapped box slightly larger than a communicator and setting it aside. 

 

"We'll bring it to her tomorrow," he said, and then returned to the letter. 

 

{{Now you've got a tree. If I could, I would also send a fire in the fireplace, and hot mulled cider, and children at the window singing "Silent Night." But I can't, so you'll have to imagine those (and maybe program the food synthesizer for the cider). The other boxes have everything else. As you open them, and celebrate the season, know that I am with you in spirit, and that I carry you always in my heart. 

 

{{All my love, Claire.}} 

 

### 

 

I return to the present with a start. Spock, too, looks distracted. Uhura pulls an envelope from her pouch and hands it to me. It's addressed to Spock and me in Jim's strong, angular hand. "He said you should open this first." 

 

I take it from her, thanking her automatically. The silence grows long and awkward, and then Uhura breaks it. "I'll go now. My family is expecting me for the year-end holidays. No, don't get up; I'll let myself out." She reaches down and hugs me, touches Spock lightly on the arm, and is gone. 

 

A letter from Jim. I'm afraid to open it and ache to read it at the same time. Just knowing that he had touched the envelope, had written our names on it, makes me want to treat it as a precious relic. I hold it lightly, in both hands, paralyzed by memory and longing. 

 

Spock reaches over and takes it gently from me. Carefully he eases open the flap and pulls out the sheets. He opens his mouth to begin to read out loud. 

 

"Don't," I say. He looks at me, eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. "Let's just - look at it. Together." He nods, understanding that I want to be able to conjure Jim's voice, and I move closer to him so that we both can read at the same time. 

 

{{Dear Claire and Spock, 

 

{{Do you remember our first Christmas? We weren't all together, but we were. You made sure of that, Claire. That little tree, and your letter, and the gifts - they meant a lot to us that year, didn't they, Spock? 

 

{{As I write this, it's August, and things aren't going very well for us. We're not doing a very good job of communicating. A lot of that's my fault. I've been pushing you away, and I'm sorry. I know I'm not ready yet to face what's to come, and even though I should want to spend every minute of my limited time with you, being with you reminds me of just how little time I do have left, and how angry I am that we won't have more. I don't know why I'm able to write about it here but not talk to you about it. Maybe this will be the first step. I hope so, because I miss you and need you both. 

 

{{Remember the card you sent us that first Christmas, Claire? 'Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow.' Well, I'm pretty sure we won't be together this Christmas. I just don't think I'll make it that far. We've had twelve years, and it's not nearly enough. Claire, you've really been cheated - all those years without either of us. I know you must have been lonely sometimes, but you never complained. 

 

{{Spock, you never complained either. You've had so much more of me, but being with me has meant you've been apart from Claire. And I know how often you've put your own interests and ambitions aside so that I could fulfill mine. Do you know what it's meant to me to have you by my side all these years? 

 

{{You both have given me a great gift - to do the work I love, and not have to give up the man and woman I love. You've done all the compromising, and I've never properly thanked you. You have made me very happy, happier than I ever knew I could be. I hope I'll have the chance - and the courage - to tell you all this and more, before it's too late. 

 

{{Now about the gifts. Well, Claire, you planned ahead that first Christmas, and I planned ahead this time. As Christmas presents go, they're not very typical, but I think they'll have special meaning for you. Tomorrow I'll take them to Nyota and ask her to make sure that you get them on Christmas Day. 

 

{{It's time for me to finish this letter. I'm getting tired, and you both will be home soon. Open the tallest box first. And like that song says, "Have yourself a merry little Christmas now." 

 

{{My darling - my t'hy'la. Be well. Be happy. And know that I love you both, always. 

 

{{Jim}} 

 

Spock finishes reading before me, and when I look up he takes the letter and very carefully, deliberately refolds it and puts it and the card back in the envelope. Then, laying it aside, he very carefully, deliberately takes me in his arms and lowers my head to his shoulder. I am trembling and cold, and his body heat is welcome. So is his steady breath, and his hands on me, one at the small of my back and the other slowly stroking my hair. We sit that way for a long time, and when finally my own breathing is as steady as his, he asks, "Shall we open our gifts?" 

 

### 

 

The night air is still and cold, as it was when last we were on this patio, in this chair. The moon appears as only a sliver; the stars are very bright. We sit wrapped in blankets against the chill, side by side, pointing out the ancient constellations visible in the winter sky. Unlike my human ancestors who named the configurations we retrace, I have seen these stars from other perspectives, have walked on some of the planets that orbit them. One would expect that such experiences would turn watching the heavens into a mundane exercise, but they do not. Stargazing will never again be mundane for either of us, inextricably linked as it is in our memories with Jim's last hours of life. 

 

Claire's head rests on my shoulder. One of my hands is intertwined with hers. My other hand rests on Jim's gift to her - a small box of cherry wood, beautiful in its simplicity. Jim crafted it himself. I stroke my fingers over the smoothly polished wood. 

 

In the box, Jim placed the tapes containing all his correspondence to Claire during our many journeys, as well as her messages to him. He also had included the few handwritten letters she had sent to us over the years. Unknown to me, he had saved every one of them. When Claire opened the box and understood what it contained, her expression was one of wonder and gratitude at receiving such a gift. 

 

Claire's free hand holds a piece of Jim's gift to me - a white knight from the chess set he and I used on Enterprise. She runs her thumb over and over the ridges and edges as if to absorb his very essence from an item he handled so often. It is clear, when she handles these objects - the chess pieces, the box and its contents, Jim's last letter to us - that they have much power to evoke emotion, and memory. She treats them with great reverence, almost as if they were of him rather than simply from him. 

 

Over our years together, Jim presented us with many gifts. I know, however, that we value most the intangible gifts of the spirit that he offered to us each day: his intellect, his humor, his optimism, his courage and perseverence, and especially his love, expressed repeatedly in word and deed. 

 

I do not require artifacts to remember my t'hy'la. And yet I, too, cherish his final gifts to us. They have little intrinsic value, but to Claire and to me they are priceless treasures, because they were chosen and prepared for us with love. 

 

As we imagine the constellations in the night sky, Orion and Cassiopeia, Perseus and Ursa Major and the others, a gust of wind rattles the ornaments on the gift that was in the first box - the little tree from our first Christmas together. We hear it, and remember that Christmas. And like Jim was, finally, on the night of his death, we are at peace. 

 

 

Through the years we all will be together 

If the Fates allow. 

Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, 

And have yourself a merry little Christmas now. 

\- Hugh Martin & Ralph Blane


End file.
